


The Appropriated Knitwear Conundrum

by Berty



Series: A Fit Of Fashion [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Even When He's Grumpy, John Watson's Jumpers, John adores Sherlock, M/M, POV John Watson, Porn with Feelings, Sherlock Needs A Hug, Wet Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 15:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15464193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: Sherlock's magical taxi hailing skills desert him one cold, wet night in London. John has a few things that might help.The third part in the brilliantly titled (by my brilliant friend @88thParallel (CanadaHolm)) A Fit Of Fashion Series.





	The Appropriated Knitwear Conundrum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [88thParallel (CanadaHolm)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/gifts).



> It's just smut again. I swear, I DO have deep and meaningful things to say about these two idiots in love - things with insight and character development and plot - but this series is not it. Sorry. (Not sorry!)

_Disgruntled_  would be one way of describing the look on Sherlock’s face as he walked into the flat that evening. _Sullen, peeved_  and _irritated_   would also have done the trick. Of course on John it would have just come over as _pissed off_ , but with Sherlock’s innate poise and breeding, he looked… well John was going to have to call it adorable.

Just not to his face.

“Raining out?” he asked.

Sherlock didn’t even grace that with an answer, merely dripped onto the carpet, leaving a spreading patch of darker red. His suit and shoes had to be ruined they were so sodden, and his jacket was darker at the shoulders but dripping from the hem. His shirt, where it was visible, was translucent and stuck to Sherlock like a second skin. His curls, so artfully messed that morning, were plastered to his head, dribbling rivulets of water that he didn’t even bother to wipe away from his face and neck.

“There was a Tube strike and all the taxis between here and Blackfriars were taken apparently,” Sherlock muttered venomously.

“Good god, don’t tell me your taxi charming skills are waning!” John exclaimed, slapping his hands down on his chair arms in emphasis. He had come to rely on his partner’s uncanny knack of being able to raise an imperious hand and summon a cab at will, day or night. “No taxis at 5 o’clock on a Friday evening when it’s pissing down! What is the world coming to?”

Sherlock squinted at him, causing another drop of water to drip off the end of his nose. “Sarcasm?”

“Yep!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. He looked truly pitiful and even paler than usual, so when a small shiver ran through him from shoulders to ankle, John had to feel sorry for him.

“Go and jump in the shower. I’ll bring you in your pyjamas.”

Sherlock slunk off without another word, pausing to scowl at the Belstaff on the coat peg he had opted not to wear that day and sighing again as his shoes and socks made unpleasant squelching sounds at each step.

John collected Sherlock’s favourite pyjama trousers, a soft t-shirt and his dark blue dressing down from their bedroom, and swapped his armful for Sherlock’s discarded pile of sopping clothes, hanging them over the bannister to begin to dry off.

He scrabbled around in the kitchen then and managed to rustle up some tinned soup and cheese on toast. Anyone might have imagined that Sherlock would have had enough of being wet that day, but John had time to put his impromptu supper beside Sherlock’s chair and set a match to the fire he had laid earlier when he’d noticed the rain, which was still falling now and looking like it was a fixture.

John heard the water stop as he called to Sherlock that he was running down to see Mrs Hudson but was unsurprised when he didn’t get an answer.

Their landlady had no advice to give John in regard to rescuing Sherlock’s suit or shirt, only waxing lyrical on the folly of buying a fabric that was dry-clean only for a man who spent as much time as Sherlock did in skips and the suchlike. John couldn’t find it in his heart to join in, knowing how very fine his beloved looked in it despite its impracticality.

By the time he returned upstairs, Sherlock’s supper was an empty bowl and a plate of crusts and crumbs, and he was slumped in his chair, toasting his toes in the glow from the fire.

“Feeling better?” John asked, detouring to the kitchen. The kettle had recently boiled and he only took a short time to make a couple of mugs of tea, carrying them back into the sitting room. He plastered his most supportive smile on his face, looked up and froze as he held one out to Sherlock.

Bare feet wriggling in the heat, Sherlock’s long, pyjama’d legs were stretched out in front of him, but instead of his favourite dressing gown, Sherlock had pulled on John’s biggest, softest jumper; the oatmeal one with the cable knit. It was a little too short for him; Sherlock hadn’t needed to turn back the cuffs on the sleeves and it barely skimmed the waistband of his pyjama trousers.

Sherlock smiled his thanks and took the mug in two hands. He glanced at John’s face, a flicker of confusion narrowing his eyes momentarily. “I hope you don’t mind. I was cold and it looked cosy.”

John cleared his throat and sat down in his chair, facing Sherlock. “I don’t mind. Are you warming up a bit now?”

Grunting, Sherlock took a sip of his tea. “I didn’t even get any useful information. Complete waste of time,” he grumbled.

“Well, we can get the files out later, if you’re feeling up to it, and see what we’ve missed.”

John focussed on his tea and tried to push away the wave of possessive lust that swept him every time he thought about Sherlock sitting there wearing his favourite jumper. He’d left it hung over a chair in their room a few days ago, worn once but not dirty enough to warrant washing yet. It would smell of him, he knew and the fact that Sherlock had chosen to wrap himself in something so clearly John’s and so unlike his usual choice made John want to pick him up and hug him – stick his hands up the inside of the soft wool and finish what the jumper had started, namely, scent-marking Sherlock as _his_.

But Sherlock was testy, tired after his walk and still stretching towards the fire in an effort to dispel the last of the chill from his bones. He wouldn’t want John pawing him, coming over all cave man on him just because he’d chosen to wear something his own wardrobe lacked.

Reaching up to put his mug on the table, Sherlock lifted his hands to his hair and attempted his trademark ruffle, which uncovered a delicious hint of stomach and only had the result of making his curls even fluffier and less artful than ever. He looked about a million miles from the sharp-suited man who cut his way across the criminal underworld like a perfectly balanced, artisan crafted blade, as dangerous as he was beautiful. And only John got to see this – the innocence of him, the side of him that wasn’t afraid to be a little silly sometimes, the side that spoke carefully and smiled often and sought out kisses and whispered John’s name when they…

“Are you alright? You seem a little… preoccupied,” Sherlock asked after a short silence punctuated only by the soft crackle of the fireplace.

John looked up, caught instantly by his boyfriend’s sharp, assessing gaze. “’M fine,” John croaked. He hemmed, “Yeah, fine. Been a bit of a long day.”

“You don’t look tired. In fact… ahhh,” Sherlock breathed, a dark smirk tugging his lips to the right. “The jumper. This is another one of those normal people clothing things – you really do like me to dress down, don’t you?”

“Haha, shuddup,” John replied. “You’re making it sound like I’m objectifying you. I love you for your personality and your intellect and your wit and your humanity, I’ll have you know.  It’s hardly my fault if you also look like…” He waved a hand that encompassed the length of his beloved, fluffy head to wriggling toes.

“Like?” Sherlock enquired, tipping his head slightly, and was it John’s imagination or had Sherlock’s voice dropped in register too, making him sound seductive and playful and…

“A fucking wet-dream,” John admitted.

Sherlock’s eyelids lowered and the smirk bloomed into a wicked, knowing smile. “Not a dream, John.”

“Feels like it sometimes.”

“Nope,” he popped. “Very, very real.” He squirmed a little in his seat, drawing attention to the growing distortion in his fancy pyjamas. Planting his feet, he let his knees splay open in a gesture so inviting, John had to swallow down a mouthful of saliva and a growling whimper.

“You’re a menace,” John muttered.

“I’m a menace who has recently received a drenching on a cold winter’s night. Don’t you think you ought to check my core temperature, doctor?”

John slid off his seat and kneed his way across the rug to settle between Sherlock’s spread legs, running his impatient hands from his shins, up his thighs and kneading the long, wiry muscles he found there.

“You feel warm enough to me,” John declared, ghosting his lips up the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, following the seam line.

“That’s doesn’t seem like a very… oh…. uh, thorough examination.” Sherlock gasped as John’s hot breath reached the bulge in his pyjamas.

Rubbing his cheek against the very obvious outline of Sherlock’s dick made a subtle rasping sound and Sherlock hummed in appreciation. The soft material was smooth against John’s open mouth as he nosed against Sherlock’s balls.

“You beauty, look at you,” John murmured, leaning back to look into Sherlock’s heavy lidded gaze. He huffed a sigh and his cock twitched appreciatively, leaving a small dark patch where he was already leaking at John’s attentions.

Chasing the taste of it, John closed his lips over the head of Sherlock’s cock through the material, kissing and sucking gently as his boyfriend’s breath hitched. He drew back again to look at the damp patch he’d made, feeling rather proud that he had only built upon Sherlock’s reaction to him.

Standing up, Sherlock’s eyes tracked him as John pulled off his own jumper and t-shirt before starting on his belt buckle. Sherlock’s tongue made a quick appearance, wetting his lips as John popped the button on his jeans, unzipped and worked them down his legs along with his pants. He stepped out of them and toed off his socks.

After leaning down for a quick but deep kiss, John walked smartly into their bedroom, snatched up the bottle of lube from the bedside table and returned to his beloved’s side. Sherlock hadn’t moved, except his head was tipped back and his toes flexed against the rug, and John just knew that he was fighting the urge to stroke himself.

“Up we get, my beauty,” John murmured, taking Sherlock’s hands and pulling him up into another deep, heady kiss. He slipped the pyjamas off his hips and let them pool on the floor, encouraging Sherlock to step out of them and kick them away. But when Sherlock began to fumble for the hem of the jumper, John stilled his hands and whispered, “Keep that on.”

Sherlock’s eyes flared open, his pupils blown wide and cheeks already pinking up.

He took advantage of Sherlock’s arousal, turning them around to effectively swap places before sinking down into his seat. John didn’t much care for the feel of leather against his bare skin, but it was warm from Sherlock’s body already.

He took Sherlock by the hips as he stood before him and placed a soft, wet, sucking kiss to the tip of his cock where it bobbed tantalisingly at mouth height. John eased Sherlock around so he faced away from him and, pushing the jumper up his back a little, licked a broad stripe across the top of his bum, blowing gently as the saliva cooled to bring up goose pimples beneath the tiny soft hairs in the small of his back.

John snapped open the lid on the lube, then warmed a generous amount in his palm. He gave Sherlock a playful slap and a nip when he began to complain about how long things were taking with an impatient wiggle of his pretty arse.

Pressing random, patternless kisses all over his lower back and cheeks, and holding him open with one hand, John rubbed slick fingers at Sherlock’s core, circling and massaging the muscles until they relaxed and became pliant. Easing one and then two fingers inside, he met little resistance, in fact it was more of a challenge to keep Sherlock’s attention engaged elsewhere and stop him from pushing down onto John’s patient hand.

He finally relented, withdrawing his fingers and giving Sherlock a healthy smack, reviewing all the tiny red marks from the nips and pinches he had distracted Sherlock with.

“John, really, we have done this before, there’s no need to be so…”

“Thorough?” John suggested as Sherlock scowled over his shoulder at him. Nevertheless, he quickly took another crack at the lube bottle and coated himself with long, somewhat lingering strokes, just to hear Sherlock huff at him.

“Come on then, my beauty,” John murmured, pulling back on Sherlock’s hip as he guided himself to the rim of Sherlock’s hole.

“You make me sound like a horse, John. My beauty is clearly…”

John derailed the latest complaint with the expedient use of a tug on Sherlock’s hip and a lazy thrust upward that pushed the first inch or two of his cock into him.

“Ah, but you are my beauty,” John told Sherlock as he helped to lower him gently into his lap, splitting himself wide on John’s cock with sighs and quiet groans. “Look at you, just look at how perfectly we fit together. That’s beauty, no question of it.”

John could watch the play of the muscles in Sherlock’s back when they fucked like this forever and never want for more. The curve of his spine and the way he arched just so were worth a thousand words of devotion by themselves. But having Sherlock’s back draped in John’s jumper, baggy on his thin frame, was a new pleasure. He pressed his nose to the knit, smelling himself, a lingering scent of washing powder and beneath it all the mouth-watering scent of Sherlock’s soap, shampoo and of the aroused man himself. John ran his hands up under the wool to feel Sherlock’s warm skin, his arched spine and to give his tight nipples a quick scrape with his nail. He bunched the material up under Sherlock’s armpits and kissed his back.

He loved to take Sherlock like this, although he missed the kisses and the flicker of reactions that sped across Sherlock’s guileless face. But his back was eloquent enough, even through oatmeal cable knit, guiding him to where he was needed. He waited until Sherlock was full of his cock before he ran an open palm down his spine, gathering the sweat that glistened there. The soft hairs of Sherlock’s arse cheeks scratched against the coarser ones of John’s groin and thighs. The firelight glowed on their skin and highlighted Sherlock’s curls; less fluffy now he had begun to sweat a little.

They took it in turns to work themselves closer to completion, Sherlock rocking himself off and back onto John’s cock, his thighs strong and his knees hooked over John’s legs as he rode him. Then he would lose rhythm, chasing the sensation of a perfect hit on his prostate. John would take over then, trying to oblige with his hands on Sherlock’s spread cheeks, lifting him while he rolled his hips up into the tight sweetness of him, trying to wring those tiny cries out of him that made John feel like a giant.

“Oh, you beautiful boy,” John moaned as Sherlock began to bounce down on him with a determination that made them both pant. “Are you close, love?”

Sherlock’s only response was a full body shudder and a throaty moan as his head dropped back.

John took another handful of lube and reached around to where Sherlock’s solid cock bobbed and strained before him, the touch of it hot and slick in John’s fist. He gripped tightly, just below the crown where Sherlock was most sensitive.

Shivering, Sherlock began to rock again, pushing himself through John’s fist or driving John’s cock deep within him. John scissored the fingers of his other hand and rubbed them against Sherlock’s hole where he was impaled on John. The slight prickle of the wool on his forearms and chest was like tiny, hot sparks against his oversensitive skin.

“Oh fuck, John!” Sherlock gasped.

“Come on, you beautiful creature. Come on,” John breathed.

Sherlock fell apart instantly. His rhythm gone, he jerked and clenched around John. His back described a perfect arc and his arms braced on John’s knees, he shuddered through an orgasm that seemed to roll through him for long minutes, striping John’s jumper with come, leaving him speechless and as boneless as a rag-doll.

John gritted his teeth against the clench of Sherlock’s spasming muscles but found that he was much closer than he had imagined. When Sherlock finally slumped forwards, spent, John took both his hips in his hands and gave a few tentative thrusts to see how sensitive he was, Sherlock simply hummed low, and rolled his head to look over his shoulder with a lazy smile.

John fucked him as slowly as he could stand to, but still found himself about to come within a couple of minutes. He crossed his arms over Sherlock’s waist, pulled him upright on his lap and pushed up into him with trembling thighs as he came deep, sweet and gasping inside him.

They both slumped back in Sherlock’s chair, managing to find a position that meant John could breathe and Sherlock would walk away without a twisted back. His cock softening and beginning to slip out of Sherlock, John could only imagine what they looked like; John, naked and with a lapful of come and Sherlock, his hair drying more mad than ever and his soft cock still glistening in the firelight, naked below John’s favourite (possibly…probably ruined) jumper.

Totally worth the loss of the jumper, John decided.

As they drifted in the afterglow, John dozed, his last, ignored thought to wonder if he had locked the door behind him when he’d come back in or not?

It would probably be fine…

 


End file.
